


A Song of Innocence and Experience

by C-chan (1001paperboxes)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 03:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11073108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001paperboxes/pseuds/C-chan
Summary: Bahorel was his opposite, his complement, his closest and most intimate friend. And the man never ceased to amaze him.





	A Song of Innocence and Experience

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estelraca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/gifts).



> Tyger Tyger, burning bright,  
>  In the forests of the night;  
>  What immortal hand or eye,  
>  Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

When Jehan thought of Bahorel, he thought of Blake's Tyger: strong and fearsome and beautiful and grotesque; a creature that inspired awe, cut from the same cloth as the lamb.

The man was made for adventure, for controversy. Whether that meant going to theatre dressed in Oriental silks with the intent to heckle the audience into a brawl, taking long trips into unexplored areas to traipse and discover, toasting abstract theories with skulls of mulled wine, or debating everything from the existence of faerie rings to the best form of government and how to ensure equitable distribution of resources and wealth with the same level of surety and exuberance, Bahorel was in his element. Bahorel shone.

And Jehan was nearly always by his side.

In many ways, he was the lamb to Bahorel's lion: quiet where he was loud, peaceful where he was rambunctious, poetic where he was brash. And, well, they'd certainly laid together on occasion. 

Bahorel was his opposite, his complement, his closest and most intimate friend.

And the man never ceased to amaze him.

> In what distant deeps or skies.  
>  Burnt the fire of thine eyes?  
>  On what wings dare he aspire?  
>  What the hand, dare seize the fire?

He wasn't quite sure how the rumour started, but his best guess was with Bahorel himself. Who else, after all, would think of using _le lycanthrope_ as an epithet? He, for one, would have chosen _loup garou_ , enjoying the way the syllables danced off the tongue. But there was something just that much more intimidating in _lycanthrope_ , something foreboding. And perhaps that made it the better choice after all.

What he did know was that Bahorel liked to hide things in plain sight. All too often he'd seen the man clapping his hand against the back of some poor sap unfortunate enough to have bet against him, or who was shocked by a gift or display, laughing and pointing out how he'd admitted to the exact way this would happen _weeks_ ago. Joly was somehow often prone to such deception, even though Bossuet and Grantaire said he should know better by now. 

It was amusing in a cautionary tale kind of way. Not that he'd ever been the best at listening to those, but, well, it was more fun to be on Bahorel's side more often than not.

Not that it was always easy to be at his side. The man had a way of coming and going that was unpredictable yet entrancing. The man could start a riot and disappear right in the thick of things; come in halfway through a song and give the ending a flourish that no-one knew it needed.

He threw the best parties on the new moon, insisting that if the sky would be devoid of light, the earth would have to provide. Two weeks later, he'd refuse all invitations, citing work to be done. Opinions tended to vary between finding items to make the next party more extravagant the last, splitting his time in an oddly calculated way between revolutionary business and Romantic pleasure, or the full moon giving him some sort of urge to brawl. Grantaire had once created an epic narrative in which Bahorel did all three in one night, stealing someone's silk scarf after beating them up over Ultra ideals, and strewing pamphlets over the cobblestones around the fallen man.

Jehan had doubt in all of these theories. They sounded like Bahorel, certainly enough, but none had the air of truth about them. None seemed to fit the way the man seemed ecstatic with energy on those days, based on on the rare glimpses he'd gotten. It wasn't an itch for a brawl, and too regular for any sort of night market shipment or Revolutionary fervor. 

No, if his theory was right, then there was no doubt at all in who started the interest in his dear friend's epithet.

> And what shoulder, & what art,  
>  Could twist the sinews of thy heart?  
>  And when thy heart began to beat,  
>  What dread hand? & what dread feet?

No theory can be settled without proper exploration. Jehan was no scientist, but he understood the truth in such methods and practiced them with care. Of course, he wasn't about to experiment if it would lead directly to harm: he avoided Gendarmes and faerie rings with equal caution, if with slightly more reverence for the latter than the former. But things like witnessing the effects of absinthe first hand, comparing accounts of immigrants and the very poor, and asking dear friends if they are of a slightly supernatural bent are generally much safer endeavours, if things that should be handled with some delicacy. After all, absynth is best enjoyed in the company of others; food, compassion, and occasionally an interpreter are needed when collecting stories; and one does not simply walk up to a close friend and ask if they are, perhaps, a werewolf.

Then again, Bahorel was a man who appreciated the occasional dose of tactlessness, which is probably why Jehan eventually settled on asking him directly nonetheless.

Being himself, and therefore an eccentric, Romantic, and socially awkward poet, the question could not be uttered without proper set-up. In fact, it took him two new moon parties and one more disappearance of his friend for him to work up the necessary courage. 

It happened on a hot August night, the words finally finding their target with the aid of hashish, opium, and the comforting, swirling patterns on the drapes. 

And Bahorel smiled, laughed, and requested his presence at the Bois de Vincennes on the night of the next full moon.

> What the hammer? what the chain,  
>  In what furnace was thy brain?  
>  What the anvil? what dread grasp,  
>  Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

The air was thick and carried on it the scent of green and life with just a hint of gunpowder as Bahorel led Jehan into the woods. There was no discernable path to follow, but Bahorel assured him that he knew his way, and so Jehan followed by his side.

Bahorel wasn't dressed like himself; his Oriental silk and _traje de luces_ traded out for a Bohemian style waistcoat hung loosely over his shirtsleeves. His pants were similarly loose; seemingly out of place on a man with such a proud figure, even if the resulting outfit was spectacularly composed.

They'd reached a small clearing about half an hour in and Bahorel sang as he set up camp, making a fire and procuring a simple meal of bread, meat, and cheese and a very nice bottle of wine. They ate and drank in cheerful company, talking of trees and plays and revolution until the sun had set and the first stars were glinting in the sky.

And in the twilight's gloaming, Jean Prouvaire watched as his friend refueled the fire and quickly washed his hands and face, empting one of their waterskins. That done, he divested himself of his clothing, and walked a few barefoot paces on the leafy ground.

Bahorel turned, flashed a too-big smile, and suddenly his friend was there no more.

> When the stars threw down their spears  
>  And water'd heaven with their tears:  
>  Did he smile his work to see?  
>  Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

The creature was a monster of sinew and stretching skin. Of hair and fur and a form not quite bipedal or quadrupedal and yet both as hands collapsed into paws. Of a million indescribable things, and Jehan could only watch, terrified and yet intrigued as Bahorel transformed from man into beast.

And then it was over, and the overlapping sounds of fire crackling and bones reconfiguring were drowned out by a howl as the large canid form raised his head to the moon.

A few other howls echoed the first, and Jehan found himself wondering if they were natural creatures or other beings like his friend.

His train of thought was interrupted by something warm and covered in fur tackling him to the ground, giving a few quick sniffs, and then licking his face.

Yes, this was _definitely_ Bahorel.

> Tyger Tyger burning bright,  
>  In the forests of the night:  
>  What immortal hand or eye,  
>  Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

When Jehan thought of Bahorel, he thought of Blake's Tyger: strong and fearsome and beautiful and grotesque; a creature that inspired awe, cut from the same cloth as the lamb. Now he also thought of a large red-brown wolf who was equally fierce and affectionate, who had morphed from his best friend into a terrible beast, and who was his very naked friend once more when they awoke the next morning. And really, wolf and tiger weren't that different at all.

Bahorel was the experience to his innocence, the active to his passive. Bahorel _was_ and Jehan _could be_. And whether his form was canid, felid, or _homo sapien_ mattered very little.

Whether in the heat of battle, the pleasure of debate, the intimacy of the bedroom, or the ecstasy of hazy intoxication; whether alive in the city or finding rebirth in the forest, Bahorel was in his element. Bahorel shone.

And Jehan was by his side for every moment he could.

After all, the man never ceased to amaze him.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem used is, of course, The Tyger by William Blake. The title is from [the book in which it originally appeared](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Songs_of_Innocence_and_of_Experience), also featuring a contrasting poem about the lamb.


End file.
